The Yuletide Treaty
by simplyshelbs16
Summary: Months after the events of Sherrinford, Sherlock and Molly reluctantly make a deal where she pretends to be his girlfriend for the holidays, and in turn, he'll watch her cat for her holiday in the new year. By signing a 'Yuletide Treaty,' this arrangement proves to be mending their broken friendship.
1. A Spirited Beginning

**Author's Note:** Hello readers! This is a Christmas story I posted on ao3 last month, and only just recently finished. I was debating whether to keep posting stories on this site, but I figured why the hell not? The only thing I wanna say is that from here on out, I ask that if you don't like my stories, just stop reading them. Don't bother commenting. I don't post for criticism, constructive or otherwise. I post because it brings me joy to write and share my stories with you. Thank you. Sending love to all y'all! xo, Shelby

* * *

"For God's sakes!" Sherlock shouted in annoyance. He tossed his mobile on the sofa with impressive force, just as Molly entered 221B, ducking as a reflex.

"I see you've still got anger issues," she remarked with a sigh. Sherlock kept his mouth shut, knowing that if he were to make a comeback, it would just make things worse with Molly. He felt as if he had to walk on eggshells around her anymore since that blasted phone call, and the several arguments that followed after.

"He's got a lot of issues, love," Mary piped up from the kitchen where she was feeding Rosie. "So speak up, Sherlock…what's got your knickers in a twist?"

Molly stored the body parts 'his nibs' requested in the fridge, where they were usually stored, whilst she listened in to the conversation around her. She tried to ignore it, but her curiosity always got the better of her.

"Mummy won't get off my back about meeting the girlfriend I made up having months ago," Sherlock answered reluctantly. "She wants me to bring her 'round for Christmas…and I would if I hadn't lied this one time."

"You're always lying," Molly scoffed, but was loud enough for only Mary to hear. At that point, she lost track of the conversation, having it become background noise as she cooed at her goddaughter. And she was successful at ignoring it, until the sudden silence. That was when Molly looked around to see Mary looking at her with a mischievous look. "What?"

"You are gonna be Sherlock's date for Christmas," Mary told her with the upmost confidence.

"Like that's gonna happen." Sherlock and Molly spoke in unison, laughing at the notion. "In case you haven't noticed," Sherlock began, "we haven't had a friendly conversation since my birthday."

Molly's heart clenched in her chest as her mind wandered to the events that occurred after they went out for cake that evening.

 _"Sherlock, you need to eat," Molly pleaded with him._

 _"What for?" he sighed, plopping down on the sofa, turning himself away from her. Molly knelt down on the floor beside him, leaning her head against his shoulder._

 _"Because, Sherlock," she told him, "you need to keep your strength up." Molly's fingers traveled up, brushing them through his freshly washed curls. A small smile graced her lips when she heard his hum of approval at her ministrations._

 _"I already ate a slice of cake," he mumbled. "Isn't that enough? I'm too tired." Molly boosted herself up on her knees, leaning over to speak softly in his ear._

 _"A compromise then?" she suggested, hoping he'd agree to eat. She jumped back when he turned over to face her._

 _"I'll eat a full English breakfast in the morning," Sherlock told her, the promise of it lingering in his reddened eyes. God, it killed her to see him like this._

 _"What's the catch?" she asked, wondering where he was going with this._

 _"Have dinner with me," he said simply. Molly wasn't sure she heard him right, and Sherlock obviously noticed, so he elaborated with his next three words. "On a date."_

 _"You've no idea what you're saying," Molly laughed in disbelief. "You're still on the mend, and you're not thinking straight." Of course, he assured her he was thinking quite clearly, and so she waited for him to pick her up the night of. The only thing was that he never showed up; no calls, no texts. That's the night Molly promised herself never to fall for any more of his stupid games…until he called her two weeks later with a most heart wrenching request._

"I want something in return," Molly stated firmly. "If I agree to this, you have to watch Toby whilst I go on holiday next month." Sherlock cringed inwardly. He and Toby had never gotten along. This compromise wasn't worth it.

"No deal," Sherlock replied almost instantly. "I'd rather face my mother's wrath than deal with your mangy cat."

"He is not mangy!" Molly argued in Toby's defense. She marched off toward the door, ready to leave. "I can't believe I ever felt anything for you, Sherlock Holmes." Granted, this was just the front she put up around him ever since he stood her up. Of course, nobody but her and Sherlock knew about it, but she'd rather spare Mary the details of it all.

As for Sherlock, his reasons for standing her up were pretty flimsy, even to himself. Most importantly, he realized he loved her too late. Not in the way he loved his friends and family, no. He loved her in ways he couldn't even begin to comprehend. After Eurus put the last nail in the coffin, quite literally, Sherlock knew whatever shreds of his friendship with Molly were destroyed. He could never become the man she needed—the man she deserved. Not once did it occur to him that it wasn't his call to make. He should say something—make her wanna stay. Instead, what came out was much worse.

"Don't let the door hit you on the way out." And with that, Molly slammed it as hard as she possibly could.

"Sherlock Holmes!" Mary berated him. "Honestly, what is going on with you two!?"

"Something unfixable," was all he replied with, walking toward the fridge. He stopped when Rosie gripped his index finger tightly. He looked into her bright, shining blue eyes that seemed to cut him to the core.

"Unca! Mowwy!" she squealed urgently, pointing at the door with her other hand. Sherlock had to admit to himself that it was pretty sad when a one year old was telling you to fix things. So he flew down the stairs, and onto the street clad in only his pajamas and cobalt blue dressing gown. He could see her only a few feet away.

"Molly!" he called out to her, his voice booming, but the tone was desperate. She turned to look at him, completely disheveled, and began to laugh at the sight. Slowly making her way toward him, her mind was telling her it was a bad idea, but Molly couldn't ignore the fact that her heart made her go to him.

"Always the dramatic one," she told him upon her approach. Sherlock was relieved to see that she found it amusing. "What in—"

"I'm sorry," he told her breathlessly. "For everything. What I said was uncalled for, and I apologise for all I've done in the past, but Molly—"

"I'm sorry too," she spoke quietly. "I don't wanna fight anymore, Sherlock. We should at least be adults, and not bring this negativity out in front of Rosie."

"Agreed."

As he watched her walk away from him once more, something that would never stop making his heart ache, Mycroft rang him.

"Brother mine, I have a case for you."


	2. An Unlikely Alliance

"I'm listening," Sherlock remarked.

"Peter J. Davies has been murdered; I once presided over him within the government," Mycroft explained. "The tests show cyanide poisoning."

"Sounds as if his food may have been poisoned…did he happen to have cassava root in his meal?" Sherlock questioned.

"Check the report. Until then, try to figure this out before Christmas." With that, Mycroft hung up. It seemed he'd have to visit Moll—ahem, the corpse of Davies—at the morgue in the evening.

"Ah, perfect, you've already rolled him out for me," Sherlock commented happily to Molly.

"Only because your brother called before you arrived," she replied. "Look him over as much as you need." She handed him the file before walking towards the door.

"You're not going to stay?" he questioned. It was very unlike her to act indifferent toward his cases.

"I have a ton of paperwork to get done, and besides, Mike said he'll supervise. He's on his way over now." He watched as Molly walked away from him once more. Shaking the sad thoughts from his mind, Sherlock read over the report, which listed cassava root in Peter's stomach contents. If it wasn't properly cooked, it could lead to an accidental death, but Sherlock believed this was definitely murder. Whoever cooked it made sure it would trigger the production of cyanide.

What little Sherlock knew about the man was that he was married, but the food wasn't cooked by his wife, as the food was from a takeout place not far from his home. But that didn't mean it couldn't have been set up by the man's spouse. It was difficult enough for Sherlock to understand romantic entanglements, though he knew very well to whom his own heart belonged, but to figure out the motive, he'd need to experience such an entanglement. That's when he recalled the conversation from earlier. Maybe he should watch Toby; besides, how much trouble could her cat give her? He needed her to solve this case, and get his mother off his.

"How's it going, Sherlock?" Stamford asked as he walked through the door.

"With any luck, everything may turn around for me after all," Sherlock replied.

"That's the spirit, chap! I'm sure she'll come 'round." Ah, Mike was talking about Molly.

Sherlock's face softened, and looked Stamford straight in the eye. "I hope so…but you know what they say about hope—breeds eternal misery." He took photos of the body, later turning back to Mike. "I must make a call to my brother's office now, if you'll excuse me."

Just after the first ring, Mycroft's PA answered the phone.

"Mister Holmes, shall I get your brother?" Anthea asked.

"Ah, no, it's actually you I need to speak with," Sherlock confessed. "Could you possibly draw up a contract?"

Molly hadn't the slightest idea why she even cooperated, getting in the not-very-conspicuous black car that would surely take her to Mycroft's official office. She's met with him at the Diogenes Club, and even at his personal home, but never had she been in this terribly bleak office of his. It felt more like an underground cell. Figuring she should just sit and wait for him to arrive, Molly did just that, letting out an audible sigh when Sherlock sat in the chair beside her.

"Should've known this was your doing," Molly remarked.

"Partially," he admitted. "In truth, I didn't think I'd get this far."

"Sorry, I'm late," Anthea greeted them. "The copy machine was acting up." She walked behind the desk with purpose, as if she were on a mission. She slammed the two papers in her hands on the desk in front of them.

Molly took hers in her hands, confusion etched on her face. "The Yuletide Treaty? What is this?"

"Exactly what it says, Miss Hooper. It's a contract, and from what I understand, you still need someone to watch your cat when you go on holiday next month, correct?" she asked.

"Well, yes, but—"

"Then this says you will agree to be Sherlock's fake girlfriend for the Christmas season, and he will watch Toby for you—simple as that," Anthea explained.

Molly turned to Sherlock, questioning him with her eyes. "You said you wouldn't do it."

"Well, I've changed my mind. How bad could cat-sitting be? Even if he doesn't like me all that much," Sherlock remarked. "I figured the only way you'd agree is if you knew for a fact I'd uphold my end of the bargain. An official contract should suffice, no?"

She looked over the requirements listed, and laughed in disbelief. "At least two kisses each day for the time that we're at your parents' home? Seriously?"

"It needs to be believable," Sherlock argued.

"And you came up with, did you?" she asked him.

"Actually, Miss Hooper, I did." Mycroft Holmes strolled into the room. "Whilst the contract was drawn up by Anthea, Sherlock and I discussed what the specifics should be. And since I will be within the same vicinity as you two, I'm afraid there's no getting around it if you sign."

"Fine," Molly conceded, signing away her chance for a real relationship during the Christmas season.

"Ah, now, aren't we quite happy that business is over with?" Mycroft's smile could be described as complacent, though Molly wasn't sure why he felt pride over this.


	3. Meet Me Under the Mistletoe

The trip was awkward by far. Nobody spoke with the exception of Mycroft speaking to Anthea on his mobile. At one point, Sherlock had attempted to hold her hand, though Molly pulled her hand away.

"Miss Hooper," Mycroft addressed her. "I believe the two of you should at least begin acting like a couple before we arrive. After all, you need to get used to it for the next two weeks."

Reluctantly, Molly had agreed, ignoring the rapid beating of her heart when he laced his fingers with hers. She felt wretched for the way she'd been acting towards him. She knew he loved her, though it wasn't in the same way as she loved him, but either way, Molly knew how badly she was hurting him, and she hated herself for it. Giving his hand an affectionate squeeze, she saw the small smile that appeared on his face. It made her heart ache in the best way. Her eyes fluttered closed, causing her to eventually fall into a quiet slumber.

"Molly. We're here," Sherlock told her, gently shaking her shoulder. She woke suddenly, looking as if she had a fright, but before he could ask if she was okay, Mycroft insisted they get their luggage.

"Siger, they're here!" Mrs. Holmes shouted as she came out to greet them. "Mycroft! I wasn't sure you'd show up!"

"Well, Mother dear, I felt I should see how these two weeks unfold this year," he replied truthfully, glancing back at his brother.

"Good of you to make your mother proud," Siger remarked. "And you must be Molly!" His smile was much like Sherlock's; warm and comforting.

Molly smiled as Siger took her hands in his to greet her. "Yes, it's so lovely to meet you! Both of you!" Violet Holmes hugged Molly tightly.

"I was so afraid neither of my boys would ever bring a girl home," she admitted. "I am so glad Sherlock brought you, dear. We've always been ever so grateful that you helped save his life on multiple occasions."

"Multiple?" Molly questioned, her eyebrow raised at Sherlock.

"Yes, well, why don't we go inside before we freeze to death?" Sherlock suggested, wanting to escape all the greetings.

Violet led them up the stairs and down the hall, though her sons already knew where to go, but Molly supposed it was the principle of the thing.

"First up, you two will take Sherlock's old room," she told them.

"Wha—we're sharing a bedroom?" Molly asked with concern. Mycroft snickered.

"Surprised I'm not old-fashioned?" Violet laughed. "Why would I prevent myself from gaining grandchildren?" It was a rhetorical question, of course.

"No need to show me my room, mother dear," Mycroft interrupted the awkward silence. "I'm fully capable of finding it for myself."

"But of course, dear," Violet replied. Then, turning to Sherlock, she said, "I'll let you two get settled."

Molly followed him into the room, surprised at what she saw. Of course, she didn't see Sherlock as strange or inhuman like most people, but his old room was filled with things he had grown up loving. She couldn't help but feel a twinge in her heart when she saw an old child's pirate hat sitting atop the small bookshelf. The contents of his books spanned from children's stories, science texts, detective novels, and even a few classics that Molly also loved.

"You look surprised at how normal this all appears to you," Sherlock spoke, snapping her out of her reverie.

"Surprised? Yes. Normal? No." She traced the top of a test tube from an old chemistry set. "It's more about seeing how the boy you were helped shape you into the man you are today. A bedroom—even the one you grow up in—is always a deeply personal thing to show someone."

Sherlock nodded in agreement, focused on the fact they'd have to share a bed. It was too early for such close confines. He hoped that these next two weeks would get him back in her good graces again, and if he was really lucky, maybe she'd give him another chance.

Upon their return, Sherlock and Molly stopped at the bottom of the stairs to see what the excitement was about. She noticed Sherlock's jaw drop at the sight of Mycroft greeting Anthea with a kiss upon her cheek.

"When did that happen?" Molly asked, amused.

Sherlock, finding nothing amusing about the situation, repeated the previous question. "Yes, when exactly did this happen?"

"Only a few months ago, brother mine," Mycroft replied nonchalantly. "Mummy, look who's under the mistletoe." He nodded his head towards Sherlock and Molly.

"Oh, kiss her, Sherlock," Violet requested sweetly.

"We're not really the PDA types," Sherlock attempted to argue.

"Kiss the girl!" Siger encouraged him. Molly couldn't help but flush with embarrassment, mentally kicking herself for feeling butterflies over the prospect. She didn't have time to process her thoughts before Sherlock's lips were on hers—firm and soft at the same time. How was such a thing possible? It was as if his mouth—and oh God, his tongue—was electrifying her bloodstream. Her heart hammered in her chest furiously, and if possible, would probably jump out of her chest cavity. She looked up into his eyes when he parted from her, and saw such a beautiful vulnerability that made her believe he truly loved her, even for a moment.

"Look at you two!" Violet cooed. "More in love than ever!" Molly laughed nervously, running a hand through the silky strands of her hair.

"Perhaps I should help you in the kitchen?" Molly suggested, attempting to avoid such an awkward moment. "Sherlock mentioned that you like to bake Christmas pastries for your friends in the village."

Violet clapped her hands together. "Oh, yes, of course! I could always use another pair of hands." She gave her husband a stern look. "A pair of hands that won't be used to eat everything up, I should add."

"It was one pudding, my dear," he tried to appeal to her.

"It was one pudding, five cookies, and a partridge in a pear," Violet huffed.

"A partridge in a pear?" Molly asked, curiosity getting the best of her.

Mrs. Holmes took Molly by the arm and explained as she led her to the kitchen. "It's quite simple, dear. They're pear-shaped Linzer cookies, and you cut out a partridge in the top layer, revealing the jam it's filled with. Most use raspberry or apricot, but I like to use pear, for obvious reasons." As Violet continued her cookie rant, Molly felt an old familiar feeling; the warm and fuzzy kind she hadn't felt for years. She felt it wasn't so bad pretending to be Sherlock's girlfriend for the time being, as she did miss having family to spend Christmas with, though she did hate lying to everyone. They'll never have to know, she told herself.

Sherlock had to keep fighting his impulse to wrap his arms around Molly, and pull her in closer. Having to share a bed when he wasn't even welcome into her heart was nothing short of pure torture. He wanted to tell her he meant it—his declaration of love—but one of two outcomes would come from that. On one hand, she may not believe him, and their friendship would be ruined beyond repair. On the other hand, she would believe him, and they'd finally be together, but her life would be in more danger than usual. He preferred the former if he were to ever confess to her, but above all, he chose to keep his heart hidden away for the sake of their friendship.

 _God,_ he realized. _Is this the way she felt all these years?_ Granted, her outcomes were probably different. He turned his head to take in her sleeping form. For God's sakes, she had to be practically gripping the edge of the bed to keep as far from him as possible. Did she really hate him that much? _No_. The voice in his mind palace was Molly's. _You're being too hard on yourself. I—she loves you unconditionally._ Pretty words, but were they true? Sherlock found it hard to believe that unconditional love existed. After all he put her through, how could she ever forgive him? How did she stand to be around him now? Surely, it couldn't just be for having a cat-sitter.

"I'm so very sorry, Molly," he whispered into the dark, with Molly still breathing steadily. "I would give anything to take back all the wrong I've done you." This small confession was enough to make his heart feel lighter, though she was still sound asleep…or so he thought. It really was too bad he couldn't see the small smile tugging at her lips.


	4. The One Where Mycroft Stirs Up Trouble

For the next couple of days, it was the same routine of helping Violet with the baked goods, and gathering around by the fire in the sitting room after dinner in the evening. Tonight, Molly felt she was playing twenty questions as Sherlock's parents continued to throw questions at them about their relationship. Neither of them had really prepared a story beforehand, but at least they mostly stuck to the truth of their friendship.

"So, who asked who out first?"

"I did." They spoke in unison, receiving some raised eyebrows.

"Well, I technically did about seven years ago," Molly admitted truthfully. "Asked him if he'd like to have coffee sometime, and the bugger didn't even realize I was asking him out." She laughed a little at the cluelessness of him back then.

"Yes, very true," Sherlock remarked. "But I approached her about becoming significant others with the help of Mary."

"How very…practical of you, dear," Violet replied.

"Mother, if you expected Sherlock to be the kind to sweep Miss Hooper off her feet, I'm afraid you were mistaken," Mycroft piped up. "It's not as if he has a romantic bone in his body."

"Oh, and you do?" Sherlock retorted. "From what I can see, Anthea had to snog you in order for you to understand the hints she's been dropping for, what, three years now?"

"I had to snog him _and_ tell him in the simplest terms of how I felt," Anthea added with amusement.

Mycroft, obviously already annoyed, made matters worse by asking a question of his own. "Do tell mummy what your first date was."

"We," Sherlock began, "Stayed—"

"Went out," Molly finished, causing Sherlock's brows to furrow. His parents looked rather confused as well. "Well, I mean, our very first date had been planned, and we were gonna go out, but he stood me up."

Mycroft's mouth opened in shock slightly, knowing from Molly's body language that this was truthful.

"I, uh, never forgave myself for that," Sherlock confessed. "We stayed in for our real first date. It wasn't anything posh; just eating takeway at her flat, conversing, and watching Molly's favourite movie."

Violet and Siger turned to each other, knowing look on their faces. "See, Mycroft," Siger began. "Sherlock is a romantic. Gets it from his old man."

"And what is her favourite movie?" Mycroft pressed on.

"Pride and Prejudice; every version ever made. It also happens to be her favourite work of Jane Austen's as well, though Mansfield Park is a close second." Sherlock was in no mood for his brother's games. "I know what you're trying to play at brother, but the joke is on you. I already know everything about Molly, considering she's been my best friend for longer than I've known John. And unlike _some people_ ,"—he looked Mycroft dead in the eye—"I actually pay attention to the minor details." With that, Sherlock stood and left the room.

Everyone was forced into silence after the spectacle before them. Molly was stunned at the words that came flowing from his lips. He considered _her_ to be his best friend? That's definitely one thing he had never told her.

Molly finally spoke, only to make her exit. "Excuse me for a moment."

She found him outside in the backyard garden, the plants covered in a wintery frost. He was smoking again, his coat wrapped around him to keep the chill out. And there she was, only in a holiday jumper, attempting to comfort him. He said nothing when she took his free hand in both of hers. "Are you okay?"

"Honestly?" he asked, and she nodded. "I'm not even sure anymore." His eyes refused to meet hers, and in that moment, all Molly wanted was for him to look at her.

"I'm sorry." It was all that came to mind for her to say, but it was an apology she felt she needed to make. "I haven't been very nice to you as of late."

"It's alright, Molly," he brushed her off. "I got what was coming to me. I couldn't expect you to stick around forever, could I?"

"It's not alright, Sherlock. I've been awful to you. Truthfully, we've both been terrible lately." Molly moved in front of him, so he'd have no choice but to look at her; to see her. "You think I haven't forgiven you, and the truth is, there was never anything to forgive. You were trying to save my life, and for that, I'm thankful."

"But I did stand you up before any of that happened," he interrupted.

"You did," she acknowledged, "but you apologised for it on our first night here." His eyes lit up, knowing that she must have heard his whispered apology. "Not that I hadn't already forgiven you. So, the question is…can you forgive me?"

"Always," Sherlock replied simply. He put out his cigarette, soon pulling her into his arms. "Still friends?"

"The best," Molly smiled, savoring the warmth of him.

"Hey, you two!" Siger called out to them.

"You'll catch your deaths out here," Violet said, appearing beside her husband. "The rest of the goods are done. Maybe you'd like to deliver them together in the morning?"

"Sounds wonderful, Mrs. Holmes!" Molly smiled.

Molly had trouble sleeping that night. She was glad to be back on good terms with Sherlock after months of distance, but there were still little doubts seeping into her mind. It wasn't their friendship she doubted, mind you, but his willingness to begin dating her before Sherrinford happened. The date they never had, and that 'I love you' she still heard in her dreams were what kept her up at night.

Turning over to speak with him about earlier, Molly found that he was no longer in bed. In fact, he must've left the room during the twenty minutes she actually slept. Slipping out of bed, and wrapping her dressing gown around her, she left the room to find him in the sitting room, sitting on the floor in front of the fireplace. What she found most strange was the half glass of whisky he held in his hand, considering Sherlock wasn't much for drinking with the exception of John's bachelor party.

"Didn't mean to wake you," he spoke suddenly. "It took so long for you to get to sleep, I made sure to be extremely quiet."

"S'alright," Molly replied. "I haven't really felt like sleeping." She seated herself beside him. "Too many thoughts."

"I understand all too well." He gave her that sweet half smile she loved so much. Molly always thought he looked at least ten years younger when he did give a smile on the rare occasions. "Whisky?"

"Why not?" Molly accepted with a shrug. Most people would be surprised he already had another glass with him, but not her. His ability to predict anyone's next move was a talent she admired. They sat in comfortable silence for a bit, only enjoying the quiet company they both needed. Molly watched as the flames danced in his cerulean eyes, looking like cold heat.

"I meant what I said." Those five words caused Molly to hold her breath at what would come next—or at least what she hoped would happen. "You are my best friend, in case you were wondering." His words still managed to melt her heart anyways. She'd rather be his best friend than nothing at all.

"I was. Wondering, that is," she admitted. Years ago, it would've been a huge risk, but now, she didn't care about the repercussions.

It startled him at first when Molly's arms went around him, embracing him in a way more than friend would do. Setting down his glass, Sherlock returned the gesture, holding onto her as tightly as he could without hurting her. Neither knew how long they stayed like that, but both found comfort in each other's arms. It took a couple of minutes for him to realize that Molly had fallen asleep, as her grip loosened. He thought of taking her back to bed, but instead, kept a hold of her, stroking her hair.

And if Siger and Violet Holmes found them asleep in front of the fireplace the next morning, neither spoke of it again.


	5. Fake Relationship, Real Heartache

"What have you got on the case so far, brother mine?" Mycroft asked, he and Sherlock in their mother's study. "Did the wife pay someone at the restaurant to poison her husband?"

"No," Sherlock replied. "It's a bit more complicated than that."

"Go on," Mycroft encouraged.

"You see, I wanted to please Mummy with this pretense of a relationship at first, and even perhaps get back in Molly's good graces so that I—"

"Yes, yes, very fascinating, Sherlock, but what does this have to do with the Davies case?" Mycroft asked impatiently.

"Hm, oh! Wrong case," Sherlock muttered. "Davies had a wife, yes, but he also had a mistress who happened to work at the restaurant where he received his poisoned takeaway. The mistress hadn't a clue he was married until she ran into his wife one day. When they both realized his unfaithfulness, they plotted to kill him by way of cyanide poisoning."

"Case solved, then." Mycroft looked unimpressed as always.

Sherlock looked around impatiently. "Yep. Now, if you'll excuse me, I—"

"Going to make plans with your fake"—he used air quotes—"girlfriend?"

Sherlock only rolled his eyes.

* * *

"Anthea?" Molly asked. "How exactly did you and Mycroft end up together? If you don't mind me asking."

"Not at all," Anthea assured her. "I harbored feelings for him for a few years, as you well know, and he hadn't noticed whatsoever. If he did, he never showed it. Everything changed after what happened at Sherrinford though. He made the realisation that he didn't want to be alone after all. Mostly afraid he'd end up like Eurus. It wasn't until he began making such confessions to me that I finally snogged him, because at least that was something he wouldn't misread."

"Too bad that probably wouldn't work on Sherlock," Molly laughed.

"Oh, I wouldn't be so sure," Anthea remarked. "The way he looks at you—it's like you're his lifeline."

"Now who's misreading?" Molly teased, refusing to believe what she was told.

For a while, Molly chose to believe what Anthea was insinuating. It wouldn't be the first time she harbored hope for such things. She wrapped her chunky pink and black scarf around her neck, ready to go to the village with the others, since she volunteered to hand out Mrs. Holmes's baked goods. When she met Sherlock at the bottom of the stairs, he played with the fringe at the end of her scarf, smiling wistfully. She immediately knew what he was thinking about—the day they spent together, having practically been a date. Of course, Molly knew he felt something for her, and God, she thought he would have truly kissed her had it not been for that damn engagement ring. If he said the words she longed to hear, Molly would've given it all up for him. It's not as if she was truly in love with Tom, though she tried desperately to convince herself of it.

"Ready?" he asked. She nodded in reply, taking his offered hand.

* * *

As they made their rounds in the village, Molly noticed Sherlock was being distant with her in public. Granted, Mycroft and Anthea knew their relationship was a sham, but she'd figured he'd want to keep up pretenses in front of the people his parents knew. She had forgotten this wasn't real, and mentally kicked herself for not remembering. This was a dangerous agreement in her mind; a fake relationship with the man she was in love with was causing real pain. Aside from her own heartache, she was feeling awful for lying to his lovely parents. After all they'd dealt with, weren't they sick of being lied to?

"Sherlock, Molly doesn't look so good," Anthea remarked. "Perhaps you should take her back to the car."

He glanced at her for a moment. "She's fine."

"Yeah," Molly lied through her teeth. "Just fine."

They had stopped for lunch, but Molly hardly ate anything more than half of her salad. When Mycroft went to pay for everyone's meals, Anthea following, Sherlock looked at her with more concern than he had the entire time.

"Molly, what's wrong?" His voice was low as to not attract attention.

"I can't"—she took a deep breath—"I don't think I can do this anymore."

"I don't understand; why not? Did I do something wrong?" he asked, confused as to why she changed her mind.

"No, it's not you; well, maybe it is a little bit. I just—I can't lie to your parents anymore." Molly hated herself for not being able to get her words out correctly. "I'll find someone else to watch Toby since I won't be upholding my end of the bargain."

"I'll still watch him for you," Sherlock offered. "But, Molly, there's only five more days until Christmas. Why should you leave now? Tell my parents the truth by all means, but you should still stay."

"Why should I stay? They'll probably hate me for lying." Molly felt her eyes welling up, but she refused to cry in front of Sherlock Holmes.

"Because nobody should have to be alone on Christmas." Sherlock's words struck a chord in her. "We're friends, Molly. What kind of a friend would I be if I let you spend it alone?"

She never answered him because Mycroft and Anthea returned, ready to go back to the house.

 _Friends_ , Molly thought. _Just friends_. She felt stupid for believing they'd ever be more. Of course, she'd rather have him as a friend than as nothing at all, but it didn't keep her heart from breaking. At this point, she wasn't sure what ached more—her head or her heart.


	6. Stay with Me

Molly began packing up her bags the next evening. She and Sherlock fought about her going back to London, but in the end, she got her way. This was a big mistake, knowing they would never be more than friends. She now knew how it felt to be embraced by him, and how it felt to kiss those luscious lips that caressed her own. Having felt all these things, it only made it hurts all the more knowing she could never truly have him.

"So," Mycroft began, pacing the study. "Miss Hooper is going home. Told our mother the two of you broke up."

"It would seem so," Sherlock sighed, putting his head in his hands. "I've no idea what to do, let alone what to say to her. She's probably already gone by now."

"Why do you care? I thought this was just for mummy's enjoyment?" Mycroft inquired. "This so-called relationship was nothing but a farce anyways."

"What I have with Molly isn't a farce," Sherlock practically growled. "She's everything to me."

Just then, the door to the study was opened and they were faced with a not-so-happy Anthea. With anger in her eyes, she seemingly stared into the depths of the soul Mycroft may or may not have. "Mycroft Archibald Holmes, I expect you to apologise to your brother for your behaviour. How dare you say such things! I heard it all!"

"Archibald," Sherlock snickered. There was once a time he would constantly give his brother grief over the middle name he'd been given.

Mycroft's face went white like a ghost. "I apologise for my behaviour." The room went so quiet, you could hear a pin drop. "I was only trying to use reverse psychology to get you to admit you love her."

"You think I don't know how I feel about her!? I admitted no such thing," Sherlock tried to argue, but sounding unconvinced. "I don't"— he took a deep breath—"I need to go."

"You could've been nicer about it," Anthea scolded Mycroft when Sherlock left the room.

* * *

Sherlock rushed upstairs to find Molly's bags were gone. His heart felt as if it were shattering into jagged pieces. He needed advice, and needed it now.

"Dad?" Sherlock called softly, entering the sitting room.

"What is it, son?" Siger asked, noticing that Sherlock no longer had the usual spring in his step. "What happened with Molly? Are you two alright?"

"No," Sherlock answered honestly. "We haven't been alright in a long time."

Siger listened patiently as Sherlock told him everything, starting with the very first moment he laid eyes on Molly Hooper, all the way up to their current situation.

"I know what you're thinking." Sherlock looked away from his father, ashamed of himself. "I should let her go—give her a chance to find someone who deserves her."

"Now, I know you've always been a clever boy, Sherlock, but mind reading is not your forte," Siger told him. "From what you told me, I don't see an unworthy man. You did all you could to protect her, even if it meant keeping your heart locked tight. So, you've made mistakes, but who hasn't?"

"Molly," Sherlock answered immediately, but it only made the elder Holmes laugh.

"I can guarantee you, son, that Molly has made plenty of mistakes herself." Siger had never seen his son so distraught before. "Go to her. She's on her way to the train station. Take the car."

Sherlock said nothing more, but nodded. He grabbed the small package underneath the tree, threw on his coat, and left for the train station. There was still time to make things right.

* * *

Molly waited around for her train, spending the time wondering if she was doing the right thing. The voice in her head told her yes, but her heart disagreed. It was with Sherlock she belonged, but it was too painful to sit around and wait for the moment when he would tell her thanks for being his fake girlfriend. It was best to take matters into her own hands.

She spotted a mop of dark curls coming through the crowd, making her heart accelerate. Turning her eyes away, Molly buried her head in her hands. She needed to stop imagining things, honestly. It defeated the purpose of leaving.

"Molly!" Her head perked up at the sound of the baritone voice that shouted for her— _his_ voice. She stood, not knowing where it was coming from until his arms were suddenly around her, holding her tight, and spinning her around. "Thank God," he breathed heavily. "You haven't gone from me." His voice wavered, as if he were choked up over the whole situation. Before she could speak, he was pressing his lips against hers firmly, giving her no choice but to reciprocate.

Molly threw her arms around his neck, holding on for dear life. She felt tears rolling down her cheeks rapidly, her fingers combing through his curls. "Sherlock," she managed in between kisses.

"Molly," he replied, moving to kiss the tears from her cheek, "please stay, darling." Her heart gave out from the desperation in his voice. He lifted her up into his arms, kissing wherever he could reach. Forehead, cheeks, neck, nose; his lips left a trail everywhere he traveled. "I love you so much. Please don't leave."

"I won't," Molly finally managed to get out, realising that they were both crying. "Sherlock, I love you too—more than anything. I thought you didn't want me anymore."

"I've always wanted you," he confessed, "from the very first time we met. I'm an idiot, but we'll talk more, I promise. First, let's go home."

 _Home._

Molly felt the world being lifted from her shoulders in that moment. He walked away from the bench, with her in his arms, but she just laughed, "Sherlock! I've got to get my bags!"

"Oh," he realized, "right." He chuckled, setting her back down on her feet, going back to help her with her luggage.

During the drive home, Sherlock dug into his coat pocket, and held out the small box to Molly. "I was gonna wait until Christmas, but I almost lost you that way. Please, open it."

Gingerly, she took the box from his hand, undoing the silky ribbon that kept the lid on tight. Her hand shook a bit as she lifted the lid, revealing a beautiful rose gold locket in the shape of a heart. On one side, there was a quote from her favourite book: _You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you._ On the other side, she found not her name, but his engraved into it.

"Do you like it?" he asked, sounding unsure of what he just did.

"It's beautiful," Molly replied in awe. "But may I ask why your name is engraved on it?"

"I thought you'd ask," he told her. "I realise it's strange to not have your own name on it, but the reason is because it's a metaphor." He paused a moment before explaining further. "I've given you my heart, Molly Hooper, and I hope you'll choose to keep it."

"How long?" she questioned him. "How long have you had this planned?"

"The fake girlfriend scheme? Just a couple months ago," he answered truthfully. "The locket, however, is one I had personalised for you the day before I asked you to solve crimes with me."

Molly had no words—that was nearly two years ago! What she did do was place the necklace around her neck, and grabbed his free hand in hers, squeezing it affectionately. This whole time, she was misunderstanding their whole dynamic, and she truly felt relieved to know she had it wrong all along.

"If it's any consolation," Sherlock said softly, "I thought you didn't love me anymore."

"I couldn't stop loving you even if I wanted to," she assured him. "And I'd never want to stop." They drove the rest of the way in comfortable silence, both happily overwhelmed with the truth out in the open.


	7. A Very Merry Epilogue

_Two Years Later_

They were celebrating with his parents again this year, and Molly couldn't be more thrilled. She smiled brightly at her husband as he bickered with Mycroft over who would get the last of the ginger nuts.

"It never ends does it?" Anthea asked with amusement, her hand resting on the small bump of her stomach.

"No," Molly laughed, "I don't think it ever will." She took another bite of her toffee pudding, earning a curious glance from her sister-in-law. "What?" Her voice was muffled from the sweet, gooey dessert in her mouth.

"That's your third pudding," Anthea pointed out. "You never eat that many sweets consecutively."

In a panic, Molly pulled her aside as to not be in earshot of their husbands and their parents. "Whatever it is you think you know, you don't."

"Oh, but I do know, and I'm so happy for you! Sherlock hasn't figured it out yet? Really?" Anthea was surprised, but then again, she knew if he's anything like Mycroft, he probably tends to miss the obvious.

"No, surprisingly, but I'm telling him tonight," Molly informed her.

"What about tonight?" Sherlock questioned.

"Um, Anthea and I were gonna go down to the village tonight," she spoke unconvincingly.

"Nooope," he remarked, emphasizing the 'p' the way he always does. "You've got plans tonight."

"With who?"

"With me," he smiled.

* * *

"Where in the world are you taking me?" Molly laughed, listening to the sound of the snow crunching beneath her and Sherlock's feet.

"You'll see." It was she got him to say. He had a duffel bag hanging off his left shoulder, and Molly hadn't a clue what was in it. They walked for a few minutes more before reaching a small clearing. There was a pavilion decorated with fairy lights, and a good sized pond, frozen solid. It took her breath away.

"Sherlock," she breathed out, "what is all this?"

"Well, I remember you saying your favourite Christmas was when your father taught you to ice skate on the pond behind your home, so I thought maybe you'd do me the honor of teaching me." He smiled at her brightly, his eyes sparkling from the fairy lights hitting them just right. He opened the bag, revealing two pairs of ice skates.

"I'd love to." Molly changed into the skates on the pavilion's stairs, and immediately began gliding across the pond. She skated in circles, fascinating Sherlock by her graceful footwork. In another life, she could've been a professional, he thought. "Aren't you coming?" The joy displayed on her face, reminded him that of a child's excitement on Christmas morning.

Carefully, he made his way over, reaching for her outstretched hands. They took baby steps on the ice to help him get used to the mechanics of it. It wasn't long before they were gliding together, hand in hand. It was probably a mistake to let him go solo, as one wrong turn and he fell into the snow, laughing. Molly couldn't help but laugh along with him.

"Now you know I'm not good at everything," he remarked.

"You'll get a hang of it," Molly assured him, leading him back to the pavilion. "I can't believe you never skated as a child though."

"It didn't interest me enough to learn," Sherlock admitted. "I was never like other children anyways. I can't imagine what Mycroft's child will be like." The thought seemed to amuse him. "He'll have his hands full."

"As will you." Alright, Molly thought, this is it. It took all she could to not laugh at the confused look on his face. "I'm pregnant, Sherlock."

"How far along?" he asked, bewildered by her news.

"Just a month," she smiled. "I thought for sure you'd figure it out before I did."

He said nothing in response, but kissed her sweetly, hugging her close to him. "That is the most wonderful news, darling." Molly smiled at his reaction, having been worried about how he might receive, as they never talked about having children before. It was a welcome surprise, for sure, and Molly already knew that she wanted to name their baby after her loving husband. Neither knew that Sherlock would get his just desserts for saying that it's never twins.


End file.
